


Settle

by stillane



Category: The Rundown (2003)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillane/pseuds/stillane
Summary: Set'tle v. To pay (a debt); to establish residence in, colonize; to discontinue moving and come to rest in one place; to restore calmness or comfort to.
Relationships: Beck/Travis Walker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Settle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2007, and now brought over here for safekeeping (with some edits).

This is how it starts:  
  
Beck has always been more of a dog man, really.  
  
Travis, though… Travis keeps turning up on his doorstep, mangy and ragged and loud, like the neighborhood stray tom, and Beck doesn’t ever quite turn him away.  
  
It’s his own damn fault for feeding him in the first place, after all.  
  
Even now, Beck still has no idea how Travis found him. It was done – _Beck_ was done – and when Travis went off to where the hell ever, Beck didn’t leave him so much as a permanent phone number.  
  
He had plans. There had been a small house with a modest bit of land waiting for him for more than a year, not too far from a Southern California city large enough to have a decent restaurant crowd. It isn’t L.A., but he manages. Dirt driveways and too many stars in the sky, but no one shooting at him.  
  
Three months later, Travis is sitting on Beck’s porch swing, filthy and grinning. He’s got a diamond the size of his fist, and a story that is probably mostly true. He leaves Beck’s towels a mess, gives him hell about his apron, and snores like a buzz saw. A week later, Beck finds a check on his kitchen counter and the doors locked on an empty house.  
  
There’s a building in town that needs some work, but it’s got a back terrace shaded by old live oaks and a view of the sunset. He hires an electrician and five kids to wait tables, and puts out an ad for a bartender. A woman old enough to be his mother answers it last, by virtue of being the only one to pass the interview. (The interview itself consists of one question: he asks what goes well with Chianti, and she does not say fava beans.) Anne's sensible and she knows more than any one person should about martini mixing theory, and he drafts her as manager on the spot.  
  
It’s another month before he’s ready, and then opening night finds him smiling and welcoming more customers than he can count. He watches them all, holds their eyes as he shakes their hands, but none come with anything but the honest will to eat. None of them know him, and he tells himself that’s fine.  
  
Two weeks later, Mindy gives him an order for the saltimbocca special and the news that the guy at table three says hi. Travis sprawls in the booth like he owns it and waves.  
  
And somehow, when he isn’t paying attention, this becomes the way of things. They have a routine. Travis shows up when he feels like it, leaves the same way. Sometimes he blows in like a hurricane, sometimes he limps in like a train wreck. Beck doesn’t say much; he doesn’t need to. Travis is never hard to get a story from. What surprises Beck is that he always listens.

*******

  
  
Beck does not date. It's very hard to make dinner conversation when your past consists of Met Bad People, Killed Worse People, Am Hiding from Other People. Not for the first time, he knows life would be easier if he were a different sort of man. Maybe one who doesn’t hate to lie.  
  
Once, he would have avoided that issue with something casual. A quick, simple exchange of needs, nothing more expected by either side. If it was never quite enough, he could always add one more item to the list of what he could have someday, right under ‘normal life’ and ‘legal career’. He might have miscalculated, though, because it turns out it's damn hard to find casual in a place this small.  
  
(Travis calls him Mr. Monk once he catches on. Then he starts on the steroid jokes. Beck tells him not everyone thinks with their dick, and asks if he’s been to Chicago lately. Travis shuts up.)  
  
And so Beck doesn’t date. He keeps to himself, and he bides his time until he’s lived long enough as a normal man to have a past to talk about.

*******

  
  
A year on:  
  
There’s a little less time between visits, maybe, and maybe the stays are getting a little longer, but it doesn’t matter, and they don’t mention it. They watch the Lakers on lazy afternoons in his living room, windows wide open and sunshine banding the floor. Travis props bare feet on the coffee table and trash talks during commercials. Beck points the remote at him and futilely presses mute. Every now and then he catches a popcorn kernel before it can hit his ear.  
  
It’s Beck’s couch, and Travis’ beer, and it works.  
  
Now and then, though, it’s Beck’s backyard instead, and it works a little differently. There are still too many stars, but from the porch here he’s managed to make the view almost familiar enough to be comfortable. Travis tends to sit here at night, legs trailing down the wooden steps and back against the rail post, bottle dangling from loose fingers between his knees. Beck flips the light off mostly to keep away the bugs, and a little bit to see those stars.  
  
They don’t talk about anything, really. Nothing important. Travis had a dog named Jefferson when he was five. He got thrown out of nine prep schools. He hates opera.

It's more than Beck's known about anybody in years.

*******

  
  
Sometimes, long after he has turned out the lights and slipped between his cool cotton sheets, after the house has settled with its own sighs and rustles, there will be a few quiet sounds from the next room. Never anything loud or obvious, which surprises him at first; he would have guessed Travis would be as expressive in bed as everywhere else.  
  
Sometimes, if it’s warm outside, he leaves the windows open. When the air is still, sound carries well.  
  
He's never quite sure whether Travis knows that he's listening.

*******

Beck spends Tuesday the 23rd of September working. He opens at seven and sets the special for the day, and then loses himself in the rhythm of slice and stir. Two of his staff are out with colds, and every now and then he comes out to serve a table himself. By now, it's a familiar crowd; he smiles and asks about Mr. Arnold's children, Kelly Lindstrom's art classes, Mrs. Jordan's Cadillac.  
  
He leaves a bit early, planning on a long shower, a good meal, and quality time with the classic movie channel or ESPN. First, though, he heads for the refrigerator to set a bottle of wine to chill.  
  
On his kitchen island is a chocolate torte from the best bakery in L.A. and a copy of _The African Queen_. No note.  
  
Beck turns 34 with Bogart and Hepburn for company, and ignores the empty spot beside him on the couch.

*******

  
And then four months go by with nothing. Beck doesn’t acknowledge he’s noticed until Anne catches him scanning the dinner crowd and passes him something amber and iceless.  
  
He goes home at the end of a long week and the house doesn’t look quite right. He plays the part of the oblivious everyman and palms the switchblade he keeps in his jacket along with his keys. The front door is locked, and the house is silent. There isn’t a hair out of place until he hits the kitchen.  
  
The rear door hangs open to the night beyond. Travis sits with his back against the dishwasher, face pale and still, and doesn’t open his eyes when Beck flips the light on. Beck crouches next to him, shoulder blades crawling with the expectation of attack, but it stays only the two of them.  
  
Travis smells like blood and sweat. His skin is cool under Beck’s fingers, his pulse too fast and light. Beck curses and reaches for the phone, but a cold grip on his wrist stops him.  
  
Travis holds his gaze. “No.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“ _No_.” It’s not the word or the way it’s said, it’s the look in his eyes that does it. It’s the fact that he looked this way in a bar in Brazil, and in the passenger seat of an SUV in L.A., and not for a moment in his father’s house. He looked this way just before he chose driving off a mountainside over going home.  
  
Beck puts down the phone. “Fuck.”  
  
Travis slumps back against the cool metal and closes his eyes again. “Yeah.”  
  
New plan, then. “Anyone follow you? Travis,” quick tap to the face, “Is anyone following you?”  
  
He gets a dry chuckle that ends in a cough. “Yeah. I left breadcrumbs, too. See any pretty birdies, Beck?”  
  
Beck grits his teeth and puts a hand on Travis' shoulder to stop a sideways slide. Travis jerks back with nowhere to go, and there’s a warm, tacky feel under Beck’s palm.  
  
Okay. Practicalities first. “Shot?”  
  
“Just a little.” Travis raises his hand an inch off his thigh and holds finger and thumb apart, then lets them drop.  
  
“Uh huh. How long ago?” Beck’s attention is mostly on the buttons under his fingers and the breathing under the buttons.  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
He doesn’t stop to check. “After eleven.”  
  
“Okay. What day?”  
  
Which is when he admits that this is going to be a long night.  
  


********

  
  
It’s a through and through to the shoulder, neat and professional. It’s placed perfectly, with no danger of a quick kill and every chance of a long recovery. Beck has plenty of time to admire the skill behind it as he cleans and abrades and bandages.  
  
He has plenty of time to plan an appropriately skilled answer, too.  
  


*******

  
  
Travis sleeps for almost two days. He spends half of the third day sleeping, too, and the rest of it in and out. Day four is for bitching weakly about everything from having too few pillows to having too many blankets. Beck retreats to the kitchen and hides behind from-scratch chicken soup. Travis adds too much salt, but he eats two bowls. A few of the knots work their way out of Beck's shoulders.  
  
Beck calls Anne to say he won’t be in and she asks how Travis is doing without Beck ever mentioning him at all. He tells her they'll both survive. Probably.  
  
The morning of the fifth day, Beck registers movement in his sleep. It’s not a sound that worries him, though, and he takes his time waking up and finding a pair of sweatpants. He makes his way to the kitchen, padding barefoot over the wooden floors.  
  
Travis is upright and staring at Beck’s coffeemaker like it kills puppies for sport. His right arm is in the makeshift sling Beck left by his bed. He reaches out and presses a button with his good hand, and then another, and then a third. The machine beeps feebly in protest.  
  
Travis doesn’t look away from the promise of caffeine. “I think it’s broken.”  
  
Beck growls and nudges him aside. Gently. “Not yet, but you're getting there.”  
  
He presses the right button, and gets a promising gurgle. Travis grunts happily. Beck adds the right everything to two mugs – cream and sugar for himself, straight sugar for Travis – and eventually the coffee itself. Travis takes a mug and shuffles to the back door, and then stands blinking at it blearily. Beck snorts and undoes the lock, then holds the door open. As Travis slides past him, he grins like he’s gotten away with something.  
  
Travis settles in his usual spot on the stairs, and Beck grabs the rocking chair he bought a little while ago. The sun clears the back trees before either of them says anything.  
  
“Was it about Billy?”  
  
Travis shakes his head. “No.”  
  
“Chicago?”  
  
“Nope.” He grins into his mug.  
  
“Cops?”  
  
“Strike three, big boy. Really, you suck at this game.”  
  
He puts enough of a rumble into it to be convincing. “Travis.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He keeps the grin for a moment, and then lets it slide off. “Wrong place, wrong time, actually. Bad guys wanted the same thing I wanted – the Kingston Cross, which, by the way, was awesome – and didn’t care so much how they got it. Which, by the way, they did.” The bitter twist to his lips says it all. "Not sure they even knew my name."  
  
“You just pissed them off.” It is nothing _like_ a question.  
  
Travis tilts his head back against the porch post and laughs. “Man, everybody needs a hobby.”

They spend day five watching Indiana Jones movies. Beck makes tortellini soup and sorbet. Travis dozes off on the couch, and Beck tosses a blanket over him and leaves a glass of water and a handful of pills on the coffee table.

*******

  
And then on day six:  
  
It’s a small sound. Just one small, wrong sound, but he’s been waiting for it for nearly a week.  
  
Beck is out of his chair and across the room before the faint chime fades. They have five minutes - his alarms are all precise. He opens the cabinet by the TV and pulls out items with swift, practiced motions, laying out the tools of his trade. He finishes with a handgun, flipping the safety off as he faces Travis.  
  
Travis turns wide, horrified eyes on him. “Fuck. Beck…”  
  
He lets an eyebrow quirk up. “Friends of yours?”  
  
“Son of a bitch. I didn’t think they’d… Jesus. I didn’t…” He’s shaking it off enough now to be fighting out of the sling and looking for a weapon. Beck hands him the Glock, and he blinks at it.  
  
“You didn’t think. Do I look surprised?” He stands to the side of a window and watches the tree line. There’s nothing there, but then he didn’t expect them to make it easy.  
  
Travis is going strong on a litany of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ without really pausing for breath. Beck is reluctantly impressed.  
  
“Travis? Shut up. I have to go kill people now. You have to help. Pick up the damn gun and let’s go.”  
  
And Travis’ mouth snaps shut. Then he says, “You have a plan.”  
  
Beck snorts.  
  
Travis snickers. “You have a plan for _this_. Shit.”  
  
There. Just a twitch of color by the corner pines. Here they go. “I have a plan for everything. Head for the barn.”  
  
He turns, and Travis is standing two feet away and staring at him like Beck’s the coolest thing since sliced bread met convection heat. It’s unnerving.  
  
Travis gives him that bright, manic grin. “You know what? Fuck it. You can kill me if we live.”  
  
And then he grabs the back of Beck’s head and hauls him down and kisses him. Hard. With _intent_.  
  
And Beck… doesn’t really do anything. Travis pulls back fast and Beck manages to blink him into focus, and the grin is gone but his eyes are still glittering dangerously. He shrugs, and winces, and then he’s out the door and Beck is blinking at his own blank, cream-colored walls.  
  
That was not in the plan.  
  


*******

  
Beck does not hate guns; he respects them.  
  
Mostly, he doesn't like who he used to be.  
  
When he worked recoveries, he'd always refused to carry. What you carried you might use, and assault is a very different thing once ‘with a deadly weapon’ gets in the mix. Half of the job had been intimidation anyway. He learned very early that if you're big enough and threatening enough, you might not have to hurt anyone at all. The man who taught him how to fire a gun, and how to hurt people, was very clear that you never pull a weapon you aren't prepared to use. It’s not a lesson he's forgotten.  
  
When he reaches for the 9mm inside the freezer, it's with this in mind.

*******

  
  
Travis doesn’t ask for help. Ever, really.  
  
He wheedles. He begs. He flips people upside down and backwards and often off, but he doesn’t ask for anything. When he wants something, he makes it happen.  
  
Travis doesn’t ask for anything, except for that one time when he asked Beck to save him. Except for, somehow, every time he’s shown up on Beck’s porch or couch in the last year and a half, and silently asked to stay. Beck, when he's let himself almost think about it, has never been sure what to do with that.  
  
Right now, what he’s doing is improvising. His plan was good, and three of the men sent for them found that out (briefly), but there are still at least two more and he hasn’t seen Travis in more than a minute.  
  
And then he comes around the barn and he does. Travis is on his knees, head bowed and breathing hard. There’s one man in front of him in the dirt, not moving and very probably dead, but it’s the one behind him that has Beck’s attention. That one has a gun against the back of Travis’ head, and the look of a professional having a very bad day.  
  
Travis is not asking for help, and that makes no difference whatsoever.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Beck waits just long enough for the gun to clear Travis’ head on a reflexive arc to Beck himself before he fires. It’s a good, clean thigh shot.  
  
Travis spins on his knees and grabs the gun from the dead hitman, and then holds it one-handed on the living one. He clamps the other hand to his shoulder and stays kneeling. Beck makes a note of it as he walks over and hauls the last living threat onto his feet. A solid slam against the barn wall and gun under the chin serve as attention-getters.  
  
“I’m a reasonable guy, most of the time.” He hears the soft laugh from behind him, lets himself appreciate it. Might as well put on a show. “There are two ways this can work: Option A, you do not leave this place. He and I do, and your boss does not find us. End of story.”  
  
He pauses to let that sink in. “I like this house, though. Option B: I let you leave. You tell your boss that we are not a problem anymore. You get paid very well. I am not forced to hunt you down and remove your balls with a fillet knife.”  
  
For once, someone has some sense.  
  


*******

  
He get rid of the bodies. Very well. A good forensics team might just barely be able to tell that something carbon-based was there, once upon a time.  
  
Travis is waiting for him at the kitchen table. He’s got a glass of ice water and a chair already pushed out. Beck doesn't say, _Honey, I’m home_ , but it’s a near thing.  
  
“So.” Travis stares at him levelly.  
  
Beck downs the water, because he’s thirsty and because he doesn’t have words yet. Then he puts the glass back into its condensation ring, carefully.  
  
“I’m sorry.” He sounds it, too, voice low and tight.  
  
“This does not happen again.”  
  
Travis nods, eyes everywhere but on Beck. “Yeah, man. I get it. I'll get gone. You don't -”  
  
Beck stands and doesn’t watch for a reaction. “Get your shirt off.”  
  
The silence behind him is priceless.  
  
Travis watches him come back to the table with the first aid kit without saying a word. He goes where Beck moves him, straddles the dining room chair backwards and digs his fingers into the table edge, but doesn’t complain. Beck pulls a chair behind him and goes to work on the old exit wound's ripped stitches. He decides against replacing them, just lays a broad bandage over the whole area instead. He smooths the tape into place with his thumb, and then doesn't take his hand away. The moment hovers, waiting on a choice.

Beck leans forward, puts his mouth against the curve of Travis’ ear, and stops pretending he hasn't already chosen. “Stop running, Travis.”  
  
Travis’ breath catches. After a moment, he leans very deliberately into Beck’s hand. Given the state of his back, it has to hurt like hell.  
  
“So… not going to kill me then.” Beck hears the grin forming.  
  
“Not yet.” It comes out reasonably dangerous, before he gives ground by sliding his hand off the bandage and onto unbroken skin. He covers by setting his teeth against the curve where neck meets shoulder.  
  
Travis makes a sound without enough air to be a moan and lets his head drop back onto Beck’s collarbone. One hand releases the table and finds Beck’s knee, thumb stroking determinedly over his inseam.  
  
Beck closes his eyes and gives in.  
  


*******

  
This is how it ends:  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
It will be six more months before Travis decides what to do with his life, but he'll do the deciding right there from Beck's couch and his porch and his bed. The college he picks isn’t Stanford, but the degree will be his own. So will the next one, and the position he gets teaching history. He'll consistently be a smug dick about his teaching evals and a fucking nightmare during finals seasons, and Beck will pretend to hate every minute of it.  
  
Just over a year after Travis enrolls under the surname Beck chose for himself, a tall, thin man stops by the restaurant and Beck’s blood freezes at the sight of him. The man asks Mindy ever so casually about someone very much like Travis, without using his name, and she tells him with wide-eyed sincerity that she's seen someone like that. Beck runs through three escape plans before she says, “Haven't seen him since last summer, though. Sorry. We're pretty busy around here.”  
  
It's all very sincere. If he weren’t looking for it, he'd miss the subtle look Mindy shoots Anne, silently searching for approval. Anne gives it with a quiet smile, and then turns that smile on Beck. It's the strangest thing, being protected.  
  
No one else ever comes looking. Beck secretly wonders if Billy has something to do with it, but he'll never mention it to Travis.  
  
And one night, when the house has sighed and settled its way to sleep, and Travis has thrown an unconscious arm across his chest and mumbled insistently against his shoulder about nothing important, Beck realizes that this is his normal.

It is, against all odds, better than advertised.

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes from when I first posted this:
> 
> "Note 1: So, long about seven months or so ago, strifechaos had a birthday. This is for that. Sorry.
> 
> Note 2: terribilita and palebluebell are both wise and wonderful in the ways of the beta. Praise them for the good, and blame me for the bad. I'm stubborn. The title is courtesy of terribilita and Interpol and their song "The New"."


End file.
